


Vivid Imagery, Sensory Details

by perennials



Category: Gintama
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Freeform, Joui War, M/M, nothing really happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-19
Updated: 2015-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-02 10:12:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5244485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perennials/pseuds/perennials
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what Katsura remembers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vivid Imagery, Sensory Details

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta-read by anyone but myself at 2 in the morning. If you spot any glaring grammar/structure errors, please do drop a comment at the bottom.
> 
> I don't own Gintama or any of its characters.

This is what Katsura remembers.

 

One.

Gintoki curled up under a banister with one arm tucked under his head and the other flopped over his stomach, his loosely-tied yukata hiked up far enough that a belly button can be seen peeking out. Moonlight filters in through the window, gilding his hair whimsical shades of blue, the shadows cast over his sharp features softer and mellower than they are in the day. The curve of his lips and the arc of his neck and the serenity that has settled over his face like a comfortable blanket, smoothed out the furrows in his brow and the tension in his jaw (and he is human again). _Shiroyasha._

Two.

Gintoki is saccharine kisses and store-bought confectionaries and sweat dripping into Katsura's eyes.

(But there is blood) Bile rising in the back of his throat and acid stinging on his tongue; the (familiar) bitter tang of iron and disappointment invading his mouth; onigiri (warm, earthy) and chocolate (rich, crunchy).

Lips that are sugary sweet and words (muddled lies; slurred promises) like honeyed nectar and sake buzzing in his veins.

Three.

Gintoki -who never gets his name right- traipsing around town, gleefully crowing, _Zura this, Zura that, Zura Zura Zura._

Bickering with Takasugi over who’s supposed to sweep the yard after class (or just who's calligraphy skills are better), angry and frustrated (and fond, he thinks); mouthing raw, pain-stricken secrets against Katsura’s lips at twilight; muttering something about strawberry parfaits and twenty-percent discount vouchers into his pillow while his justaway clock silently keeps watch.

Two in the afternoon, slumped on the sofa with the latest issue of JUMP in his hands, unabashedly humming the fifth opening song of Gintama.

Four.

Gintoki, reeking of alcohol, stumbling head-first into Katsura's arms and sniffing loudly. "Ugh, you smell like booze," and the garbled but indignant reply, "you smell like sakura-scented shampoo and _alien duck_ , Zura."

Surrounded by corpses, the metallic stench of iron penetrating every orifice of his body, heavy and thick and lingering on in the air like a wad of gum lodged in your teeth (but gum has no smell, no taste, and Katsura is inhaling pure rust and copper).

Five.

Gintoki shivers when Katsura runs his fingers gently along each jagged stretch of flesh (his back is an intricate railroad map, and Katsura has memorized every station and intersection point's precise location). His pale skin is marred with a child’s resentful, angry crayon strokes (fire-truck red), but Katsura thinks they are beautiful, and he is inexplicably fond of pressing soft kisses to their tracks.

Grabby fingers tugging at his sleeve (would you stop fussing over your hair already, Shouyou sensei's going to get mad if we're late to practice!); frantic shuffling, someone shaking him awake and pulling him to his feet (hurry up, Zura, I think we've been found again); hands warm and tender on his skin and lips hot and heavy against his neck (for once, Gintoki shuts up when Katsura tells him to _stop talking_ ).

_Onetwothreefourfive._

Gintoki twisted like a broken marionette: eyes empty and unseeing, crimson pooling at his feet. There is something unwanted and sour (like unripe strawberries) creeping into Katsura's mouth (his taste buds are on fire and it tastes like nothing, like a kiss from the grim reaper). _Gintokigintokigintokigintokigintokigi_ \- either someone is shouting into his ear or Katsura is yelling so loudly in his mind that even the dull buzz of static (error 404: page not found) can not drown it out. The odor of rotting flesh hangs over the atmosphere like a heavy, suffocating cloud, drawing the air right out of his lungs (he can’t breathe can’t breathecan’tbreathe).

Katsura grabs him by the shoulders, shakes him with all the strength he can muster up because this is not how things are supposed to go, Gintoki is strong, Gintoki is swift, he is _Shiroyasha_ , infallible, unbreakable, more lightning-quick specter than human, more war machine than living being-

He is dead.

 

_But wait, hold on; breathe, breathe, you need to breathe-_

Fivefourthreetwoone.

Gintoki standing over Nizou’s wrangled body, blood running in rivulets down his arms and legs and kimono torn and tattered but gaze steady and true- triumphant.

Gintoki slumped by Hasegawa’s side in the sake store at the end of the street, wallets and minds empty, shot glasses strewn haphazardly all over the table.

Gintoki getting up and quietly tucking a blanket around a loudly-snoring Kagura and peacefully-dozing Shinpachi, the two of them curled up on the living room sofa like cats basking in the afternoon sun.

Gintoki laughing so hard he's doubled over in his seat, daylight streaming in and dappling the tears on his cheeks and his hair gold.  

Gintoki cheerfully proclaiming between hiccuping bouts of laughter that _Zura is his, and his forever_ , his arm slung around Katsura's shoulder and his lips pressed to his ear.

Zero. 

 

_Gin-chan, is he dead?_

_Obviously not, right? He's still breathing!_

_I dunno about that, Pattsuan. Terrorists aren't like normal people. This one looks pretty dead to me._  

A cool palm is pressed against Katsura's forehead.

_Shit, he's burning up._

Someone groans.

_Kagura, get a towel and water. D'you know where the spare rags are kept?_ Pause. _Shinpachi, you go with her._

_Okay!_

The sound of padding footsteps follows.

_Oi, Zura, can you hear me? You there? Not dreaming about widows and taking over Edo again, are ya?_

Someone's hand, rough and calloused and familiar, closes around his arm and begins rubbing circles into his wrist.

_Gin-san, we've brought the towels._

_Plip, plop, plip, plop._

Katsura's mind clears a little after the cold towel is placed on his forehead, enough to deduce the hand from earlier to be Gintoki's.

_Is he going to die?_

_Don't be stupid, something like this won't kill Zura._

_Bu-_

_Now run along, s' getting late. We've got a job today, remember?_

_What about you?_

_I'll be fine. Now, shoo._

(Blissful) silence.

Katsura opens his eyes.

“Good-” he pauses to lean back and peek at his justaway clock, “twelve fifty-four in the morning. How’re you feeling?” Gintoki finishes nonchalantly as he retrieves the towel and wrings it dry over a bucket. “I figured they’d only make you feel worse, so I told Kagura and Shinpachi to leave.” He drapes the towel over the bucket's edge and sighs, then runs his fingers through tousled, messy hair and looks away. “You had us worried for a second there, Zura.”

Without warning, Katsura reaches up and pulls Gintoki down onto the futon. The taller man topples and lands parallel next to him. Still not speaking, he wraps his arms firmly around Gintoki’s torso and buries his face in the crook of his neck and inhales the cloying scent of strawberry milk and dango and silver-haired permy stupidity. Gintoki responds by cradling Katsura closer to his chest and gently placing his chin on the crown of his head.

“I'm sorry."

“Mmm?”

“For making you worry. Speaking of worrying, you smell like diabetes, as usual. And it’s not Zura, it’s Katsura, you permy idiot.”

A wry smile tugs at Gintoki’s lips. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> One day I will write something with actual, genuine substance to it. One day. Today is not that day.


End file.
